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_From the “Oswego, N.Y., Palladium.”_
THE peaceful serenity of the Christmas festival is sadly married by the
intelligence flashed over the wires from the fair Southern city of
Atlanta to-day. “Death loves a shining mark,” and without warning it
came and took away Henry W. Grady, the renowned orator and the brilliant
editor, the man above all others who could least be spared by the South
at this time. A week ago last Thursday night he stood up in the banquet
hall at Boston and with charming eloquence delivered to the people of
the North a message from the loyal South—a message that went out over
the land and across the sea in words of pure, virgin gold, that will
live long after he from whose lips they fell has returned to dust. Mr.
Grady’s effort on that occasion attracted the admiration of the whole
country. He spoke as one inspired, and his pathetic words at times moved
strong men to tears and made a lasting impression upon all who were
privileged to hear him. When he resumed his seat exhausted and
perspiring, he became a prey to the chilling draughts and took a very
severe cold. The evening next following he was banqueted by the Bay
State Club of Boston, and when he arose to respond to a happy sentiment
offered by the toastmaster in honor of the guest of the evening, he
could scarcely speak. He apologized for his condition and spoke but
briefly, and when he had finished the company arose and gave him a
double round of cheers. Among the fine sentiments of his closing words,
the last of his public utterances, were these: “There are those who want
to fan the embers of war, but just as certain as there is a God in the
heaven, when these uneasy insects of the hour perish in the heat that
gave them life, the great clock of this Republic will tick out the slow
moving and tranquil hour and the watchmen in the street will cry, ‘All
is well! All is well!’” His last words were these: “We bring to your
hearts that yearn for your confidence and love, the message of
fellowship from our home, and this message comes from consecrated
ground—ground consecrated to us by those who died in defeat. It is
likely that I shall not again see Bostonians assembled together,
therefore I want to take this occasion to thank you and my excellent
friends of last night, and those friends who accompanied us this morning
to Plymouth, for all that you have done for us since we have been here,
and to say that whenever you come South, just speak your name and
remember that Boston and Massachusetts is the watchword, and we will
meet you at the gate.”
Mr. Grady returned home immediately, and his friends, who had prepared
to greet him with a great reception, met him at the train only to learn
that he was sick unto death. He was carried home suffering with
pneumonia and at 3:40 A.M. to-day breathed his last. The nations will
stop amid the Christmas festivities to lay upon the bier of the dead
Southerner a wealth of tenderness and love.
It was as an editor that Grady was best known. His brilliant and
forceful contributions made the Atlanta _Constitution_ famous from one
end of this broad land to the other. As an orator he was master of an
accurate and rhythmical diction which swept through sustained flights to
majestic altitudes. We will deal with the statistical record of his life
at another time, and can only add here that it is a matter for sincere
regret that he has been taken away before he had reached the summit of
his fame or the meridian of his usefulness.
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